


Pianissimo

by YumeArashi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, Mentor and Protégé, Musicians, social ineptitude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumeArashi/pseuds/YumeArashi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A world-renowned former violinist and an awkward young virtuoso are brought together by a beautiful old violin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pianissimo

Violin was everything to Tomás Castellano.  A quiet, introspective, and socially awkward child, he’d found at an early age that music allowed him to express everything he could never quite seem to find the right words to voice.  His parents, hardworking and gregarious immigrants, had worried when their second son had seemed so withdrawn.  But they saw that playing helped him, and however tight money was (and money was always tight), they scraped up the money for lessons.

Eventually the teachers shook their heads in admiration and said that they had nothing more to teach him.  His first violin, a battered and perpetually out-of-tune old instrument from the local thrift store, had been replaced by a succession of newer, better used ones.  Invariably, his teachers found them for him after watching the budding virtuoso struggling along on violins that could not keep up with his playing.

Tomás was grateful in his way, and he supposed he liked his teachers well enough.  But all that really mattered to him was the music.  He devoured everything he could find, and when he had no money for sheet music he made up his own.  Reluctantly, he allowed himself to be coaxed into public performances, accepting grudgingly that music alone could not sustain him.

It was a review of one of these performances, when Tomás was twenty-three, that brought him to the attention of Matthew Reichhart.

 

*****

 

Everyone in the music world knew the name Reichhart.  A world-renowned young violinist, he had abruptly and inexplicably retired and had founded a chain of stores selling musical instruments instead.  The business had taken off phenomenally and now, years later, he was known for making grants to music schools and otherwise sponsoring promising young musicians. 

Tomás’ teachers and even his family were ecstatic when the letter came in the mail, inviting Tomás to meet with the famous man.  Tomás himself was less enthused.  He performed as little as was necessary to support himself; fame and money were irrelevant to him.  As far as he was concerned, he had no need to be taken under Reichhart’s wing.

If he had made his objections known, perhaps they might have mattered, but as always, he simply went along with things, saying nothing.  The day of the meeting, he was fussed over by his mother and older sisters until he was primped and polished to a shine.  They dropped him off at the gate to the mansion, and he trudged inside reluctantly. 

Matthew Reichhart proved to be a tall, silver-blond man with sharp blue eyes and a reserved demeanor.  He didn’t look his age; the broad frame was fit and powerful, the pale hair made it difficult to see the grey at his temples, and there were no laugh lines around his eyes.  He greeted Tomás with a firm handshake and a formal smile, calling him ‘Mr. Castellano’ – a title which made Tomás inwardly wince.

But at least the man didn’t waste time with social niceties, asking Tomás to play with a practical, straightforward air which set the younger man a little more at ease.  Tomás had never been comfortable with the intricate fake chatter and polite lies that people usually hid behind.  He took out his violin and played a lively piece, his nervous energy at the meeting playing itself out in the music.

Reichhart watched intently.  His expression betrayed nothing, but the blue eyes seemed somehow pained as he listened.  Anger and hurt and longing hid below that unruffled calm, and Tomás had to fight to keep his uncertainty out of his sound.

As the piece drew to a close, Reichhart nodded.  “Very impressive,” he said simply.  “Tell me, what is it that you want to do with your music?”

Oddly enough, it was a question no one had ever asked Tomás.  Everyone who knew him just assumed that he was destined to be his generation’s greatest violin prodigy, traveling around the world playing to huge sold-out audiences.  Passive, Tomás had never resisted this fate.  As little as he wanted it, there was no use in fighting the inevitable.

Or so he had always felt.  Now, with that intent gaze upon him, he shifted his weight uncomfortably.  “I just want to play,” he mumbled finally.

Reichhart approved of the honesty, Tomás could tell.  He did not smile, but the harsh features softened.  Tomás wondered if the man ever smiled.  “A good answer,” the older man nodded.  He went to a cabinet and unlocked it, drawing out an instrument that stopped Tomás’ breath in his throat.

It was well known that Matthew Reichhart was the owner of one of the few remaining Stradivarius violins.  He had bought it a few years ago, but despite pleas from all over the musical world, he had never been known to play the precious instrument.  It lay in his large hands, gleaming and perfect, and he cradled the cinnamon-colored wood reverently.  The sorrow had returned to the older man’s eyes, but Tomás saw only the violin.

“You recognize it, I see.  As expected from one who plays with his whole heart.”

Tomás swallowed, looking from the old violin to Reichhart’s face.  The words were difficult to get out, but he wanted this more than he’d ever wanted anything.  “Please, sir.  Could…could I play it, just once?”

The older man nodded, setting it in his arms as carefully as he might have handed over a newborn baby.  Tomás held the Stradivarius gently, touching the smooth wood with calloused fingertips.  He lifted the instrument to his chin, hardly believing that this was real, and the sound of his joy filled the room.

It might have been three hours later or a dozen that Tomás finally paused, his arms aching and his sense of the passage of time utterly lost.  Reichhart was seated in a nearby armchair, his eyes closed and his face tense with old grief.  “You may come back and play it again whenever you like,” he spoke without opening his eyes.  “For now, I must ask you to come back later, I am tired.”

Tomás nodded and slipped from the room, wondering if it had been a trick of the low light, or if those really had been tears on Reichhart’s face.

 

*****

 

Tomás visited daily after that.  Even when Reichhart wasn’t home, his staff knew to let Tomás in and give him full access to the music room.  Tomás played music he knew, or had made up himself, or learned new pieces from Reichhart’s impressive library of sheet music. 

When the older man was home, he would come and listen without fail.  He was as quiet as Tomás, but in a different way – where Tomás never seemed to know how to speak his mind, Reichhart was self-assured but simply economical with his words.  Unlike the cheerful chatter that had surrounded Tomás growing up, Reichhart’s words were measured, carefully considered and voiced only when the older man felt it important to speak.

The calm, quiet atmosphere appealed to Tomás.  Here he could let the music speak for him, instead of always feeling pressured to speak.  Reichhart never tried to make small talk, never expected a report on Tomás’ day or his family, never wanted Tomás to speak just to fill a silence.  Tomás could spend hours poring over new pages of music while Reichhart sat in his armchair reading, and the quiet felt companionable rather than strained and expectant.

The imposing and intimidating mansion had become a welcoming sanctuary, and Tomás found himself looking forward to each visit, spending longer hours in the sunny music room.  He noticed himself smiling more, and even shyly opening up to Reichhart about his music.

To anyone else, Reichhart would have seemed a most unlikely confidant, but the taciturn man patiently listened to Tomás’ stumbling forays into voicing his thoughts.  As little as Reichhart said himself, Tomás never felt as though the man viewed the halting conversation as foolish or unwelcome.

He wondered, sometimes, if Reichhart was maybe a little like him, more comfortable in a world where words weren’t meaninglessly plentiful.  The older man was still very much a mystery to Tomás.  Reichhart was willing enough to talk about music or the other topics that Tomás rarely brought up, but he never spoke of himself and Tomás could not bring himself to ask.  The music room revealed little as well.  Despite nearly twenty years of public performances, there was not a single memento of Reichhart’s concert days - no photos, no dried flowers, no newspaper articles or awards. 

The man was still passionate about music; Tomás could tell from the way he spoke of it, from the way he handled the Stradivarius, from the way he listened with all his attention as Tomás played.  And yet mixed with the passion there was always a hint of grief in the older man’s eyes.  Matthew Reichhart loved music, but it seemed that music did not love him back.

 

*****

 

Tomás was shown into the music room with the explanation that Reichhart had just stepped out to take care of some business.  It must have been an abrupt departure – some papers lay on the side table next to a still-steaming mug of coffee.

Curious, Tomás stepped over to the table to see if Reichhart was writing a new piece of music, but the page was covered with text rather than notes.  He was about to put it down again when a phrase caught his eye.  The temptation to learn more about his closemouthed patron proved too much, and he skimmed the page quickly.  It was a medical report, and Tomás didn’t understand some of the language, but here and there parts stood out.  ‘Early onset osteoarthritis’, ‘limited mobility in joints, esp. fingers’, ‘loss of fine motor control’, and then, down at the end, ‘Counseling is recommended.  Patient again inquired about playing violin, and was again severely distressed when advised that such a degree of improvement is unlikely.’

Tomás was rereading that part in horror when the door to the music room close firmly.  Reichhart stood with his arms folded over his chest, looking as angry as Tomás had ever seen him.  “Satisfied?” he snapped.  “Now you know, don’t you?  The big secret behind why Matthew Reichhart retired.  Go on, let the whole world know.  I expect that’s why you ca-” his words were cut off as Tomás abruptly wrapped his skinny arms around the older man, hugging tightly.

Reichhart went still as a stone, and it occurred to Tomás that this was probably a wrong thing to do, but he couldn’t help it.  He kept thinking of the pain he’d seen in Reichhart’s eyes, the grief and anger and longing.  He couldn’t imagine how terrible it would be for something he loved so much to become slowly, daily, ever more impossible.  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled against the crisp shirt.  “Not about reading it, I mean.  Though, that too.  But I’m sorry it was taken away.  I’m sorry it happened like that.  I’m sorry you’re hurting.  I would give it back to you if I could.  The Stradivarius – it should have been for you, not me.”

There was  along moment of silence, then slowly, Reichhart’s stiff frame loosened the tiniest bit.  His arms carefully came around Tomás, his head rested against the younger man’s dark hair.  He held Tomás for a long time as he finally allowed himself to mourn for what he had lost.

Matthew Reichhart grieved the way he did so much else – in silence.

 

*****

 

The next few days were rather awkward.  Reichhart seemed wary, and self-conscious.  But as it became evident that Tomás intended to keep the promise he’d hastily mumbled that day – to tell no one what had happened – the older man began to relax.  He still seldom smiled, but his expression warmed when he spent time with his protégé. 

Little by little, Reichhart opened up to Tomás, speaking quietly of the disbelief and rage and anguish when he was diagnosed.  He spoke of the frustration and longing, of trying to come to terms with the loss but never quite succeeding.  He told Tomás about his family, of his strict parents’ refusal to see music as a legitimate path in life, of their bitter disappointment when he’d refused to become a doctor as they’d wished, and of their conclusion that the arthritis was a punishment from God for his choice.  Tomás listened, and hugged him often.

In turn, Tomás revealed his own quiet struggles with his life.  He told Reichhart – Matthew, now-  how he had spent his life thinking there must be something wrong with him, so different from the rest of his family and so inept at knowing how to connect with people.  He told him about Ramon, the little brother who had faced cancer so bravely and confidently – and still lost the battle in less than a year.  He played the music he wrote when they lost him, the Stradivarius giving the sorrowful song a richness and depth that brought tears to Tomás’ eyes even after all these years.

Matthew held him them, comforting his grief as Tomás had done for him.

 

*****

 

Matthew could tell that Tomás was in a bad mood – the music made that obvious, as always – but he waited until after Tomás was finished playing to ask.  They were side-by-side on the couch, with Tomás leaning against the older man and Matthew idly stroking the dark hair.  Matthew had found that Tomás was fond of physical affection (as much to Tomás’ surprise as his own), and Tomás found Matthew to be unexpectedly willing to indulge him.  “Now then, what is troubling that bright smile of yours?” Matthew asked gently.

Tomás fidgeted for a moment before mumbling, “I’m supposed to start a concert tour next year.”

“And you don’t want to?”

Silence, then a shake of the head. 

“Is it the traveling that worries you, or the performing?”

“Performing,” Tomás admitted.  “I don’t mind seeing new places.  But that’s not what I want to do.  It…doesn’t feel right to get up there and play in front of people.  However much I do it, I still hate that feeling.  It’s stupid, I know.”

“It’s not foolish at all,” Matthew said firmly.  “You have such passion for your music, you play with all your heart.  To get up and do that on stage must be like making love in front of an audience.”

Tomás smiled a little, the tension leaving him in a rush.  He should have known that Matthew would understand.  “It is like that,” he nodded.  “And….it’s like selling myself, too.  Putting myself on display, like an animal at the zoo.”

Matthew ran a hand through Tomás’ curls.  “Some people thrive in the limelight, and others wither in its glare.  You are too shy for that life.”

“But I don’t know any other,” he sighed.  “I can’t imagine doing anything with my life besides my music.  And sitting around playing to myself doesn’t pay the rent.”

Matthew looked thoughtful for a moment before offering, “But playing for me could.  If you wanted.”

Tomás looked incredulous.  “On the Stradivarius?  I should be paying you for that, not the other way around!”

The older man chuckled.  “It is not uncommon for a musician to have a patron who purchases a fine instrument for them to play in exchange for private concerts.  In your case, I already owned the Stradivarius, so it would be fair to offer you a paycheck for your performances.”

Tomás stared, stunned, trying to think what he should say.  This couldn’t be real, could it?  To earn his way simply by doing what he already loved more than anything in the world – that was surely an impossible dream.

Matthew patted his shoulder reassuringly.  “No need to answer right away, there’s all the time in the world.  Just give it some thought.”

 

**********

 

“He’s going to pay you for private performances?”  Tomás’ second-oldest sister Marisela asked skeptically.

Tomás nodded happily, his joy overcoming his normal reticence.  “Just to come and play for him!  Can you believe it?”

“No,” the blunt reply came from Tomás’ oldest sister, Isabel.  “If it sounds too good to be true, it always is.”

Tomás’ face fell.  “Ma- Mr. Reichhart isn’t like that.  He’s always kind and generous, it’s just how he is.”

“I bet he’s kind,” snickered Sofia, the third sister, just barely younger than him.  “Rich older guy, looking for a pretty, talented young thing for ‘private performances’?  Yeah, I’m sure he’s really nice to you.”

The other sisters laughed, and Tomás looked at them blankly.  “What are you talking about?”

“He wants you to be his kept boy,” Marisela rolled her eyes.  When Tomás still didn’t get it, she sighed.  “You know, like a boy prostitute.”

“What?” Tomás yelped, nearly falling off his stool.  “No, that’s – he’d never, he’s not like that!”

“He’s more like that than you think, maybe,” Isabel told him.  “When he was still touring, there were an awful lot of rumors going around about him sleeping with his manager.  More than could be explained by just the usual rumor mill.”

“Well…” Tomás faltered.  “So what if he was?  That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe not, but it sure is fishy,” Sofia shook her head. 

“Sofia has a point,” Isabel said, her tone kindly.  “Maybe Mr. Reichhart really is just a generous man who loves to hear you play.  But maybe he expects more out of these private performances than just music.  It happens, sometimes.”

“You don’t know him,” Tomás cried, upset.  “Stop accusing him!”

“Now don’t go getting all mad,” Marisela told him.  “We’re just looking out for our baby brother.  We’re not saying you should never go near him.  Just be careful, okay?”  She hugged him.  “We don’t want to lose you too.”

 

**********

 

True to his word, Matthew didn’t press Tomás for an answer, saying nothing more about the offer at all.  Tomás hesitated, restless and indecisive, questions on the tip of his tongue. 

“My family doesn’t want me to say yes,” he blurted one afternoon.

Matthew set aside his newspaper, looking concerned.  “They want you to go on tour that much?”

Tomás shook his head.  His family would probably understand his reluctance, if he ever got the courage to try to explain it.  “They…uhm…they’re worried that you…er…want more from me than music.”

It took Matthew a moment to realize what Tomás meant, but when he did the silver-blond brows drew together in a stormy expression.  “I take it they heard the rumors about my manager and I,” he said in a cold, clipped voice.

“I told them you weren’t like that,” Tomás hurried to explain.  “They don’t mean anything, they just don’t know you like I do.  I know you would never do that.”

The older man’s anger eased a little at that.  “I’m not angry with you, Tomás.  I cherish the trust you have in me.  I am not angry that your family found out about Christopher and I, either.  It was common enough knowledge at the time, and it was Christopher who wanted to keep our relationship secret, rather than myself.  Mostly, as I found out later, because he seduced most of his performers, to ensure their loyalty.”  At Tomás’ horrified look, Matthew waved a hand dismissively.  “That was ages ago, a youthful, foolish mistake.  I have long since put it behind me.  But what angers me about this, Tomás, is that your family – like so many others – seems to equate my preference for men with the willingness to coerce you.”

“What?  No, that doesn’t make any sense,” Tomás’ nose scrunched in confusion.

“Of course it doesn’t, but many people equate homosexuality with rape, and even pedophilia.  It is merely one of any number of biases people have.”

“That’s stupid,” Tomás said plainly, making Matthew smile.  “And anyway, that’s not what my family thinks.  They would worry the same way if you didn’t like men and I were a girl.  It’s not you at all, really.  They worry about me all the time.  Because I’m different, they think I can’t take care of myself.  They’re kind of right,” Tomás shrugged.  “And after losing Ramon, everyone’s been even more overprotective.”

Matthew’s face softened, and he nodded.  “Then I will tell you plainly, and I will tell any of your family who wants to hear it – I would never, ever lay a finger on you in any manner you don’t desire.  If you accepted my offer, then we would have a binding contract, just like any employee of mine, that states what your job responsibilities would be.  And while it usually goes without saying, in your case I will put in a special clause that clearly states that in no circumstances does your compensation require you to endure unwanted sexual contact of any kind.  It may be true that I prefer men, but I would never use this offer to take advantage of you in that way.”

Tomás smiled and hugged him.  “I know,” he said confidently.  “I was going to say yes anyway.”

 

*****

 

Just as Matthew had said, a contract was drawn up, signed and witnessed by both parties.  The contract, along with a meeting with Tomás’ benefactor, seemed to put any wariness to rest.  “I can see why you get along,” Marisela had commented as the family left that evening.  “He talks as little as you do.”

When they got to Tomás’ apartment, his father parked the car and said he needed to speak to his son.  Carlos Castellano was a small, wiry man with leathery skin and hard calloused hands from working long hours to support his family.  He was unusually quiet as they went up the walk, Tomás fidgeting nervously beside him.  “This man, he seems good,” he said finally as they reached the door. 

“He is, Papa,” Tomás said earnestly.  “He has never been anything other than kind to me.”

“You are happy, since him,” Carlos nodded, giving his son a thoughtful look.  “Your mama and me, we don’t always know what is with you.  The day you born, you come out quiet, and quiet ever since.  We try and listen for what you don’t say, but maybe don’t always do right, we don’t know.”

“You do fine,” Tomás swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat.  “You and Mama are always there for me, I love you.”

Carlos smiled and patted his son’s shoulder.  “You are good boy, Tomás.  This man, he says he don’t do what you don’t want.  That’s good.  But when you do want, what if that?”

Tomás flushed, feeling a little panicky.  “Papa, that’s not…I never said…”

“Is okay,” Carlos patted his shoulder again.  “I want you knowing, if he make you happy, this is what matters.”

Tomás blinked.  “…Really?  You’d be okay with it if he and I were…uh…together?” he blushed.

“I lose one son already,” his father said quietly.  “Never, never I turn my back and lose you too.  If he make you happy, I ask no more.”  The weathered face broke into a playful smile then.  “But if he hurt you, I break his face.  Ok, yes?”

Tomás laughed through the tears that had come from nowhere, and hugged his father tightly.

 

*****

 

Matthew was caring for the Stradivarius when Tomás arrived – the cleaning cloth and the rosin block were still sitting out.  The blond man was carefully tuning the fine old instrument, his expression pained, but determined to do at least this much.  Still, he smiled when he looked up and saw Tomás.  “I got it ready for you,” he offered, standing and holding out the violin.

Tomás hugged him, wishing he could do more – and then had an idea.  Looking up at the older man with a smile, he said simply, ‘Trust me.”  When Matthew nodded, Tomás turned around in his arms, his back to the older man’s chest.  Matthew went still, wondering where this was going. 

Tomás took the neck of the violin and moved Matthew’s hand to cover his own, resting on the fingerboard.  He twined the fingers of his other hand with Matthew’s and took up the bow, bringing it into position on the strings.  Matthew was about to protest that doing this as Tomás played wouldn’t help, but Tomás shook his head to forestall the words.  “Guide me,” he told Matthew softly.

Matthew stared at him for a moment, then closed his eyes and rested his jaw along Tomás’ head as though he were the instrument’s chinrest.  His fingers’ movements against Tomás’ hands were slight and weak, but Tomás knew music, and he knew Matthew.  He brought to life the songs that Matthew had spent so long wanting to coax from the old violin, letting the older man flavor them with tempo and tone to make them his own. 

Matthew’s heart felt as though it would break with joy and wonder as he heard his own true music again for the first time in so long.  He had thought that Tomás merely meant to let him mimic the act of playing, but instead the younger man was simply an extension of the instrument, his own personal style entirely absent as he followed Matthew’s cues faithfully.

Just as Tomás had when he first touched the Stradivarius, Matthew played for hours, and tears ran openly down his face.  “I can never thank you enough,” he said quietly as they finally pulled apart.  “There aren’t words for  how much this means to me.”

“I don’t need words,”  Tomás smiled as he set the Stradivarius gently back in its case.  He took Matthew's hands in his, kissing each pained knuckle gently.  “Your music told me.”


End file.
